Up close, the house seemed almost fortresslike. It was built of native stone with a tile roof that gleamed redly in the sun glare. Seven or eight thousand square feet, Fallon judged, maybe more. Yucca trees and desert plantings, and a flagstone walkway, separated it from the parking area.
A middle-aged Latina opened the door to his ring. She didn’t say anything, just stepped aside so he could walk in. Dim and twenty degrees cooler inside. The woman led him down a hallway, through a massive sunken living room: tile floors, muraled walls, dark-wood furnishings, Indian rugs and pottery. Casual elegance. Geena would have loved it.
The entire inner wall was floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors. Through the glass, Fallon could see that the hacienda had been built around a central courtyard as large as a parade ground: more yuccas and plantings, stone benches, a swimming pool surrounded by flagstones and outdoor furniture. Sitting at one of the umbrella-shaded tables was a woman in a floppy brimmed sun hat—the only person in the courtyard.
The woman got to her feet as the maid led Fallon outside, stood waiting as they approached. There was a glacial look about her despite the hot sun: thin white robe that covered a slender body from throat to ankles, the sun hat white with white-gold hair showing beneath the brim, white skin. Her expression was cold, too, but it changed slightly, her eyes narrowing and her mouth opening an inch or so, when she got a clear look at Fallon.
“All right, Lupe. That will be all.” She continued to look at him, unblinkingly, as the maid drifted away. The gray eyes were as cold the rest of her. She might have been a mature thirty-five or a face-lifted forty-five.
When they were alone, she said, “I’m Sharon Rossi,” without offering her hand.
“It’s your husband I wanted to see, Mrs. Rossi.”
“My husband left this morning on a business trip. Perhaps I can help you, Mr.—Spicer, is it? Court Spicer?”
“No. My name is Fallon.”
Her unpainted mouth shaped itself into a faint, humorless smile. “You told Lupe you were Court Spicer. A ploy to get yourself admitted?”
“Yes.”
“Why? What do you want with my husband?”
“To ask him about Spicer.”
“Why?”
“I think he may know the man, know where I can find him.”
“Why do you want to find him?”
“Personal reasons.”
“I see. Do you have identification, Mr. Fallon?”
He opened his wallet, slid out both his driver’s license and his Unidyne ID. She studied them for a full minute each, as if memorizing the data they contained, before she handed them back.
“Sit down,” she said then. “It’s cooler under the umbrella.” She waited until he was seated before sitting again herself. On the table next to a cloth pool bag was a pitcher of pale-green liquid with ice cubes and lime wedges floating in it. “Would you like a margarita?” indicating the pitcher. “They’re very good. Lupe’s special recipe.”
“Nothing, thanks.”
Sharon Rossi poured her glass three-quarters full, took a sip that lowered it to the halfway mark. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and for the first time, watching her, Fallon realized she was a little drunk.
“Now then,” she said, “I’d like to know exactly why you want to find Court Spicer.”
“First tell me this. Is Spicer a friend of your husband’s?”
“I highly doubt it.”
“Business acquaintance?”
“No.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Hardly.
“Then why did you agree to see me?”
“Your motives first, Mr. Fallon. Then we’ll get to mine.”
Lay it out for her? He couldn’t see any reason not to, up to a point. He said, “When I find him, I’ll also find his son.”
“His son.” The way she said the words told him she hadn’t known about the boy. “And why do you want to find his son?”
“Spicer kidnapped him four months ago, in San Diego. No one’s been able to find them since. The boy is eight and a half, asthmatic, and his mother is desperate to get him back.”
“I see. And what is your interest?”
“Let’s just say I’m a friend of the mother.”
“Your Unidyne card says you’re a security officer. Does that mean you have experience in detective work?”
“Not if you mean finding people. Military police for four years, private security work for the past dozen.”
“I see,” she said again. Another sip of her margarita. She seemed to be thawing a bit. Maybe it was the liquor, maybe what he’d told her. Or maybe a little of both. “What made you come here to ask about Court Spicer?”
“A jazz musician who knows Spicer saw him at a jam here last Sunday.”
“Ah, yes. David’s all-consuming passion for jazz.”
“Did you see Spicer then?”
“I saw him, yes.”
“Talk to him?”
“No. We have nothing to say to each other.”
“So he’s been here before. At other parties.”
“But not to listen to the music. On business, I think.”
“What kind of business?”
“My husband prefers not to tell me that.”
Fallon said, “Spicer was with a man called Bobby J. last Sunday.”
“Was he? I wouldn’t know.”
“The initial J. Bobby J.” Fallon described him. “Familiar?”
“Vaguely. I seem to recall the tattoo. But there were quite a lot of people here. There always are at one of my husband’s jams.”
“His jams?”
“Ours,” she amended, but a faint resentment lingered in her voice. David Rossi was the jazz buff, not his wife.
“Was Spicer playing at the Sunday jam?”
“No. He wasn’t a spectator either. He and my husband spent some time together in David’s study.”
“Any idea why?”
“No, but I’d like to know. I’d very much like to know.” Sharon Rossi drank again before she added, “My motives now, Mr. Fallon.”
He waited.
“Do you know anything about my husband?”
“Not much, no.”
“He’s usually very sure of himself. I’ve never known him to be afraid of anything or anyone—except Court Spicer.”
“How do you mean, afraid?”
“Just that. Nervous, on edge—afraid. Every time Spicer has come here, David has looked and acted the same, during and afterward.” She made a low, mirthless chuckling sound. “It’s almost Pavlovian, the effect that man has on him. And I haven’t a clue why. The one time I asked him about Spicer, he told me to mind my own damn business.”
Fallon asked, “How long has he known Spicer?”
“I’m not sure. A while.”
“More than three years?”
“At least that long.”
“How often does Spicer show up here?”
“Not often. And when he does, judging from David’s reaction, it’s without an invitation.”
“I wonder if your husband knows where he’s living now.”
“He might. It would depend on their business, wouldn’t you say?”
“What do you think that business is?”
She poured her glass full again, drank deeply this time. The thaw was complete now; there was high color in her cheeks, a faint glaze on her eyes. She was the type of drinker who knew her limits and seldom exceeded them, but she seemed to feel she had cause today. Dutch courage for what she was about to reveal.
“I think Court Spicer has some sort of hold on my husband,” she said. “I think he comes here for money, large amounts of money.”
“Blackmail?”
“Or extortion. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but David keeps a large sum of cash in his safe. The morning after the last jam, I opened the safe and there was quite a bit less than there should have been.”
“How much less?”
>
“Five thousand dollars.”
Spicer’s outside source of income—not much doubt of that now. He must have stumbled onto something three years ago, something David Rossi didn’t want revealed, and been using it to bleed him ever since.
Fallon asked, “So you thought I was Spicer coming back for more. What were you planning to do?”
“Confront him.”
“Just like that?”
“No.” She reached into the pool bag, came out with nickel-plate and pearl shining in her hand. “With leverage.”
It wasn’t much of a gun. A .32-caliber automatic slightly larger than her palm. Lethal enough at close range, but unreliable at any distance.
“Suppose he wasn’t intimidated,” Fallon said. “What would you have done then?”
“Would I have shot him? I don’t know, I might have.”
“It takes a lot of courage to shoot a man.”
“Or a lot of provocation. When it comes to protecting my nest, I’m as much of an animal as any wild thing.”
Fallon believed it. He said, “Why tell me all this, Mrs. Rossi? It’s personal and you don’t know me, you didn’t even know I existed until a few minutes ago.”
“Isn’t it obvious? You have a good reason for finding Court Spicer and you seem determined to do so. When you do, you’ll be in a position to find out what hold he has on my husband. And to recover anything in his possession that might be . . . shall we say embarrassing?”
Fallon said nothing.
“The idea doesn’t appeal to you? You’re big and strong, Spicer is small and soft. You shouldn’t have any difficulty.”
Still didn’t say anything.
“If you agree,” she said, “I’ll pay you the same amount my husband gave Spicer—five thousand dollars. And if you succeed, I’ll double that amount.”
He said carefully, “I’m not in this for money. Money isn’t important to me.”
“Oh, come on now. Money is important to everyone.”
“Not me.”
“So noble. Just doing a favor for a friend. Why not do what I ask and make it two favors, the second one paid for?”
It sounded good on the surface. Return a kidnapped boy to his mother and at the same time put an end to a blackmail or extortion game. Recoup his expenses and make a profit, whether he succeeded or not. But there were pitfalls. As things stood now, all he had to do if and when he located Spicer was to call the police and have him arrested on the kidnapping charge. What Sharon Rossi wanted meant confronting the man, maybe threatening him, maybe leaning on him. Breaking the law. Another thing: suppose the hold Spicer had on David Rossi involved a felony of some kind? Suppose there was incriminating material and he could lay hands on it? If he turned it over to Sharon Rossi or her husband for pay, he’d be guilty of withholding evidence, compounding a felony. He could go to jail.
“Well, Mr. Fallon?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “No.”
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
He told her why not.
“False concerns,” she said. “Whatever Spicer’s hold, it can’t possibly involve a serious crime. I know my husband—he’s not capable of a criminal act. Infidelity, oh yes, and questionable business practices, yes indeed, but those are his limits.”
That was the liquor talking. Nobody knows anybody else as well as they think they do, and that went double for wives and husbands.
“I’m sorry. The answer is still no.”
“There’s nothing I can say to convince you?”
“No.”
It was several seconds before she said, “Suppose I could help you find Court Spicer.”
“How could you do that?”
“I have access to my husband’s personal records. It’s possible he has Spicer’s current address written down somewhere or stored on his computer.”
“If that’s the case, why haven’t you looked before? Or have you?”
“Yes, but mainly I was searching for something that would explain Spicer’s hold on David. I may have overlooked an address or phone number. Or failed to look in the right place. Would you do what I ask in exchange for that information?”
Fallon thought about it. Worth yet another gamble?
He was still thinking when she said, “I could confront Spicer myself, of course. But then I’m not particularly brave or aggressive outside the confines of this house. And it might compromise your efforts to return the child to his mother.”
“Yes, it might.”
“I could hire someone else to do the job. A professional. That might work to both our benefits.”
“It might also trade one blackmailer for another. There aren’t many reputable detectives who’d take on a job like this.”
“I’d run the same risk with you, wouldn’t I?”
“I’m not that kind of man.”
“No, I don’t think you are,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been as candid with you if I did. Which leaves you as my only option. Will you please help me?”
It was the “please” that made up his mind; the way it came out told him it was not a word she used often. “All right, Mrs. Rossi,” he said. “If you can give me a lead to Spicer, I’ll try to find out what you want to know.”
“And any . . . material you might recover?”
“You’ll get it, as long as it doesn’t put me in a legal bind.”
“I’ll have to be satisfied with that, then, won’t I,” she said.
Fallon traded his cell phone number and the name and location of the Best Western for her private number. “How long will it take you to search?” he asked then.
“Not long, unless I have to go to David’s office at Chemco. If there’s anything to find, I’ll have it tomorrow at the latest.”
She stood up when he did, steady on her feet despite all she’d had to drink. He didn’t think she’d keep on boozing after he left. Woman with a purpose now. The drinking was a product of loneliness and a less-than-happy marriage, but it was plain that she loved her husband and would do whatever was necessary to keep the relationship intact.
In a way, Fallon thought, she was a lot like him. A fighter at heart. All either of them really needed was something worth fighting for.
SEVEN
WILL RODRIGUEZ GOT BACK to him just as he was leaving the Hen-derson city limits. “I had to call in a favor of my own to get what you asked for,” Will said. “You owe me big time, amigo.”
“I know it. I won’t add to the debt.”
“Number you gave me is a cell phone registered to a woman named Harper, Constance Harper.”
Constance Harper. Constance—Candy’s real name? In character for a man like Bobby J. to use a phone registered in his girlfriend’s name.
“What’s the address?”
“Twenty-nine hundred Cactus Flower Court, unit twenty-two-B, Vegas.”
“Anything on her? Known associates, anything like that?”
“Not without a lot more checking than I had time to do. Pretty common name. What does she have to do with the missing kid?”
“Directly, nothing,” Fallon said. “But if I catch a break, she could be a way to find him.”
Twenty-nine hundred Cactus Flower Court turned out to be a collection of forty or so town-house-style apartment buildings, four units to each, that took up an entire block a mile northeast of the Strip. Long entrance drive at one end, rows of covered carports for the tenants, an open visitors’ parking area nearby. Low-maintenance desert landscaping with crisscrossing crushed-rock paths.
Fallon put the Jeep into one of the visitors’ slots and went first to check the carports. Each one was marked with a unit number; 22-B contained a dark blue Lexus a couple of years old—not the kind of car you’d expect a strong-arm pimp or a dancer in a Glitter Gulch casino to be driving.
He followed one of the paths into the complex. Kids and adults made a lot of Sunday-afternoon noise over at a pool and picnic area. The town houses were arranged in geometrical ro
ws, separated by plantings and paths; he found his way to the building numbered 22. Apartment B was ground floor, its front windows and one beside the door covered by blinds.
When the door opened to his ring, it was on a chain and half of a woman’s face appeared in the aperture. A wrinkled, sixty-something face topped by gray-streaked red hair. The one eye studied him warily.
“Yes?”
“Constance Harper?”
“That’s right. I don’t know you. What do you want?”
“Is Candy here? Or Bobby J.?”
“Who?”
“Candy, from the Golden Horseshoe. Her boyfriend, Bobby J.”
“Never heard of them. You got the wrong unit, mister.”
“He has a dragon tattoo on his right wrist—”
That was as far as he got. She shut the door in his face.
Fallon went back to the Jeep with his teeth clenched tight. The woman hadn’t lied to him. The liar was Max Arbogast.
The son of a bitch had deliberately given him a wrong phone number.
Arbogast wasn’t home. Or if he was, he wasn’t answering his door.
Mild hunger prodded Fallon into a shopping-center coffee shop a few blocks from the Desert View Apartments. Lousy food and two glasses of weak iced tea used up half an hour. One more pass at Arbogast’s apartment, he decided, before he went back to the Best Western.
He couldn’t have timed it better. As he came down Ocotillo Street, Max Arbogast was just getting out of a parked Hyundai with a grocery bag under one arm.
Fallon swung the Jeep into a space opposite. Arbogast was on his way up the path to the entrance by then; he didn’t see Fallon cross the street and come up fast behind him, didn’t know he was there until he said, “Hey, Max.”
Arbogast stiffened, turning. “You again.”
“Me again. You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“What you want now?”
“The truth this time.”
“Truth? What’re you talking about?”
“Let’s go up to your apartment.”
Arbogast gnawed on his lower lip, little nibbling bites like a rat gnawing on a piece of cheese. “No. I had enough of that this morning.”
“Your car, then. Just so we have a little privacy.”
The Other Side of Silence Page 9
